


there's a hole in my soul (can you fill it?)

by agent_izhyper, iamremy



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dealing With Loss, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Nogitsune, post-season 3b
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-11
Updated: 2014-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-19 01:05:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1449604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_izhyper/pseuds/agent_izhyper, https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamremy/pseuds/iamremy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Instead of arguing what Stiles said – and in any case he doesn't think Stiles will believe anything he says anyway, not right now – Derek returns his hand to Stiles’ wrist and sits there quietly, absorbing the pain. Stiles looks up at him, surprised, before withdrawing his arm. “Please don't,” he says quietly. “I don't–”</p><p>“You don't deserve pain,” Derek says simply but firmly, and takes his wrist again. “Not after everything that's happened.”</p><p>This time Stiles does not protest, even though clearly he hasn't changed his mind about it. He just sits silently and lets Derek take away the pain.</p><p> </p><p>  <em>Five times Stiles needed Derek, and one time Derek needed him back.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	there's a hole in my soul (can you fill it?)

**Author's Note:**

> The beginning of a beautiful collab with Remy. Enjoy and please don't hesitate to yell at us for reopening your season 3B wounds ;)
> 
> Fic title taken from the amazing lyrics of **Bastille** 's _Flaws_ , and chapter title from _Sleepsong_. I highly recommend listening to it while reading. It hurts. I mean, it's good.

He wakes up to the sensation of something cold, hard and damp under his back, and the air smelling different. It takes him a moment to realize he's not in his room anymore – he seems to be in the forest.

 Immediately his breathing quickens, and so does his heartbeat. _Not good_ , he thinks. _Not good not good not good_. He opens his eyes, and his impression that he's in the forest is confirmed by the starry sky overhead, criss-crossed with the branches of nearby trees.

 He tries to move but finds he can't. Not even a twitch. His breathing rate goes higher, taking his heart rate with it.

 “I did tell you.” The voice is his own, but also not. It's much, much colder than he's ever been, more than he could ever be, and has that undercurrent of trickery, of cunning and glee in what it does. “I did tell you, you know,” repeats the horribly familiar voice. “You can't kill me.”

 “Just a dream,” he tells himself, voice shaky and hoarse. “Just a dream, Stiles, it's dead, it's _dead_ , wake up now, come on, wake up–”

 The nogitsune laughs, and Stiles hates how distorted his own voice sounds coming from it. Sounds so wrong, so unclean and just plain _not right_ in any way. If it was possible to bad-touch someone with your voice, the nogitsune could do it, he's sure.

 It comes closer, until its face is right above Stiles, blocking out the forest floor. “Riddle me this,” it whispers, the voice harsh and unrelenting, “everyone has it, but no one can lose it. What is it?”

 “No,” whispers Stiles, closes his eyes shut tight even as another realization hits him. He's lying on the nemeton and he can't _move_ and is this what sleep paralysis feels like, because it's shit and he wants to wake up _now_. He can't move but he sure as hell can scream, and so he does.

* * *

 

 John hears the yelling a few seconds before the _thump_ , and he's made his way to his son's room in a record speed of five seconds. Literally. Recognizing that Stiles is in the throes of a nightmare, he gets behind him and wraps his arms around him, pulls him close and murmurs soothingly in his ear, all the time horribly aware of the pre-nogitsune déja vu. He wonders if this is how he's going to think of things from now on. Pre- and post-nogitsune. Pre- and post- almost losing his son.

 Stiles slumps boneless in his arms. He's quiet, but his heart is still racing and he's still breathing fast, and John knows he's awake. Following his son's suit, he doesn't say a word either. He just helps him to his feet and back into bed, and covers him up with his blanket before ruffling his hair and asking quietly, “Is there anything you want?”

 Stiles just shakes his head, his expression conveying his silent thanks. John understands that the kid just wants to be left alone, and he complies, leaving the door ajar on his way out.

* * *

 

It's Stiles’ expression at breakfast the next morning that prompts John to say, “Son, maybe you should stay home today.” The kid looks half-dead, bags under his eyes and his hair disheveled. His eyes are red, and John thinks maybe he's been crying. The worst thing, however, is the way he looks like he's so broken inside he can't be fixed.

 John's scared it might be true.

 Stiles looks up at his dad's suggestion. John half-expects him to argue, just on principle, but all he says is, “Okay, Dad.”

 “I'll bring home something to eat, okay? You just rest,” says John. Stiles just nods, and John wishes he'd start bitching about healthy food, because – because then it would feel more like his son and not this stranger sitting at his table and staring at a fixed point in the woodwork.

 Stiles doesn't say goodbye when John leaves – he looks like he's away somewhere, lost inside his own head. John suppresses the urge to scream.

* * *

 

Stiles thinks he should get up and do something. Yeah. That's probably a good idea. With his mind occupied he can keep himself from thinking about the nogitsune, right? Right.

 _Valkyrie_ is on TV but he can't pay attention. His mind keeps drifting, keeps returning to things like the fact that he's responsible for the deaths of so many people, not least of all _Allison_ , Allison who was his friend and who his best friend loved, Allison who'd helped him out so many times and who'd gone against her family to help them out–

Her funeral's tomorrow, but he doesn't think he can go. He doesn't think he wants to see the final proof of what he's responsible for, can't face the fact that _if he'd just been a little bit stronger then she'd be alive_.

What startles him out of his thoughts is the doorbell ringing. He blinks himself to attention and furiously scrubs at his face, not surprised to find his hand coming away wet. He uses the hem of his shirt to wipe his tears before opening the door to find Derek standing there, looking nervous but determined.

“Hey,” he manages to greet. “What's up?”

Derek shifts on his feet and stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Just wanted to see how you're doing,” he says awkwardly.

“Oh.” Stiles isn't sure how to respond to that. “Come in.” He stands aside, and Derek enters the house. “How did you know I was home?” he asks, following Derek to the living-room. 

“I figured you might be,” Derek answers. He sits down on the couch but his entire body remains tense. The only part of the Stilinski residence that he's comfortable with is Stiles’ room. Mainly because he's never bothered using the front door and seeing the rest of the house.

He's not surprised to see that Stiles looks terrible. Like he hasn't been sleeping in ages. His scent's off, too – covered in layers and layers of what seems to be misery, guilt, shame and anger. Derek smells a little bit of salt and sorrow, and understands that there have been tears.

“Hey,” he says, unable to keep the soft undercurrent of concern out of his voice, “how are you doing?” This is why he's here, isn't it?

Stiles swallows, and knots his hands together. Derek notes that he doesn't make eye contact. “I'm – I'm okay,” he starts, and his voice is uncertain. Derek hears his heartbeat stutter.

“No, you're not." 

His answer is a hollow laugh. “Yep. I'm not. At all.”       

An awkward silence follows. Derek isn't sure what to do or say now. It's not like he's at that level of comfort with Stiles where they can hug it out and talk about their feelings or shit. They've definitely gotten closer over the last year or so, it's true, but even then Derek finds himself ill-equipped to deal with this situation.

It's Stiles that speaks next. “Allison's funeral is tomorrow.”

Derek's heart sinks. _Of course_ Stiles is going to blame himself. Why did he expect anything else?

“I don't know if I should go,” Stiles goes on. “Or if I _can_ go.”

“It's up to you,” Derek says cautiously. He remembers how, on the morning of his family's funeral, he'd begged and screamed not to go either. First time he'd spoken after the fire. It had been Laura who had finally persuaded him, only to have him completely break down at the service–

He shakes himself out of it. He's here to help with Stiles’ grief, not his own.

“What if Allison's dad blames me?” The question is soft, whispered, but Derek doesn't miss the break in Stiles’ voice.

“He's a reasonable man,” Derek begins. “He knows better. He knows it wasn't you." 

Stiles doesn't say anything to that. Derek notices his hands are shaking. Come to think of it, he looks paler than usual too. “Are you – are you ill?” he asks.

“I'm fine,” Stiles answers automatically, and his heartbeat jumps. Derek suppresses the urge to roll his eyes at his obstinacy.

“Has Scott been to see you?” he inquires instead, hoping for a change of subject.

Stiles nods. “Yeah. He comes over whenever he can. He'll come today too, when he sees I'm not in school.” The words are tumbling out of Stiles’ mouth like they usually do, only this time there's a stark difference. Normally Stiles rambles but does so of his own accord – now, he seems to have no control over what he's saying. He's just speaking without regard of what's falling out of his mouth. “He's going tomorrow, of course he's going. He thought of taking Kira but he's not sure he wants to. How's that going to look anyway, right? She loved him, and he brings his current girlfriend to her funeral. God, her _funeral_. I always just assumed she'd be around, you know? That she was infallible. She'd grow up and marry Scott because let's be real, no matter how many times they broke up they loved the shit out of each other. And they'd have these tiny kids with dimples and curly hair who'd run around the place and call me Uncle Stiles–” His voice breaks again, and he stops. Derek isn't surprised to see tears shining in his eyes.

“But that's not going to happen. Because she's dead. She's dead and it's my fault.”

“No it's not,” Derek says at once. “It's not.”

Stiles doesn't answer. Derek doesn't know what else to say to convince him. How can he convince anyone of their being blameless, if he himself still carries the guilt of his family's deaths?

So instead he does what he can – he reaches out hesitantly and puts his hand to Stiles’ wrist. He withdraws it almost immediately, however. “Your skin is freezing!”

Stiles blinks. “Yeah,” is all he says. “Been that way since – since it got out of me.”

“And you're in pain,” Derek observes, noting the darkened color of his veins through his skin. “Why didn't you say anything?”

“What would the point be?” asks Stiles plaintively. “After everything I've put everyone through... this isn't even the worst thing that I deserve.” Derek is dismayed to hear his heartbeat remain steady.

He honestly believes that he deserves to be in pain. Derek has no idea how he can even begin to comfort him. He's always been shit at this comfort schtick anyway – if it had been anyone other than Stiles he wouldn't even have come. But it _is_ Stiles, who's already suffered the most from this ordeal, and who Derek's reluctantly come to regard as a friend of sorts. He can't stay away.

Instead of arguing what Stiles said – and in any case he doesn't think Stiles will believe anything he says anyway, not right now – Derek returns his hand to Stiles’ wrist and sits there quietly, absorbing the pain. Stiles looks up at him, surprised, before withdrawing his arm. “Please don't,” he says quietly. “I don't–”

“You don't deserve pain,” Derek says simply but firmly, and takes his wrist again. “Not after everything that's happened.”

This time Stiles does not protest, even though clearly he hasn't changed his mind about it. He just sits silently and lets Derek take away the pain.

* * *

The next day dawns bright and sunny, like any other. It isn’t, of course.

Derek doesn’t really have a destination in mind when he slides into the driver’s seat of his car and twists the key into the ignition. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t want to consciously think about how the funeral starts in half an hour, and the last time he’d been near the cemetery had been right before he and Laura had left town – there had never been a point in going back to slabs of concrete with names and dates on them already ingrained in his mind. It’s not like they’re even buried there, not when ‘remains’ had been nothing more than ash.

So, no, Derek isn’t particularly willing to step foot there anytime soon, but he also knows – if he’s putting any particular thought into this, which he’s _not_ – that not attending the funeral of… of a fallen ally, a friend, of sorts, is not an option he can consider with any sort of good will.

What he _does_ end up doing is pulling up in front of the familiar Stilinski household.

The sheriff’s cruiser isn’t in the driveway. Stiles’ jeep, unsurprisingly, is. Derek forgoes the door this time. Yesterday’s experience had been awkward enough, and he prefers the familiarity of Stiles’ room.

A couple of seconds later, he’s perched just outside the window, one hand raised to knock and alert Stiles to his presence – and to unlock it. He hesitates, though, studying the teen. Stiles is at his desk, staring at the computer screen, and it would be a familiar sight but it _isn’t_. Because he’s not sprawled, or slouched over, or fiddling with things while he scrolls and clicks through pages. His legs are pulled up to his chest on the chair, chin resting on his knees in an obvious protective position, and Derek doesn’t think he’s ever seen him so still – _Stiles_ , not the nogitsune in his body, which was all kinds of eerie in itself.

This? This is just _wrong_.

Derek frowns and drops his hand. He flicks out a claw, deftly unlocks the window from the outside, slides it open and slips inside. The moment his feet hit the floor with a soft _thump_ (intentionally – he doesn’t actually want to give the guy a heart attack), Stiles startles as his head snaps towards the sound. He flails, like only Stiles can, and almost falls right out of the chair and brains himself on the table before throwing out a hand to catch himself.

“Stiles,” Derek greets, a corner of his mouth twitching in vague amusement despite himself.

Stiles huffs out a short breath and gets up, crossing his arms in front of him in a defensive manner. Derek isn’t quite sure what to make of this. “What are you doing here?” he asks evenly. Derek would be lying if he claims the flat, dead gaze doesn’t chill him.

He takes a cautious step forwards. For all that Stiles’ exterior right now is a mask, the waves of _emotion_ rolling off him are even worse than they had been yesterday, which is apparently possible. But, where yesterday Stiles’ face and voice had been a projection of those emotions, today he shows nothing. Derek feels his stomach drop as his gaze trails over the dark permanent-looking bags under his eyes, the stark paleness of his skin making his moles even more noticeable, the sheer _weariness_ hanging off every muscle despite his best effort at seeming unaffected.

It’s like Stiles had spent the whole night laying brick after mental brick until he had a wall steady enough (if barely that at all) to internalize what he’s feeling. Derek’s an expert in internalizing; he knows what it looks like and Stiles is a prime example.

“Just checking in,” Derek replies, somewhat stilted. He locks eyes with Stiles, who rolls his briefly before letting out a short sigh and dropping his arms.

“You don’t need to,” he says, unable to keep the tired tone out of his voice even while it’s flat.

Derek shrugs. There’s not really a good way to answer that, or one either he or Stiles would understand and accept, beyond _I wanted to_. So he opts out of saying anything, glances around the room instead and goes to sit down at the edge of the bed. Stiles watches him silently before sitting back in his chair and returning abruptly to his computer. Derek would question his actions, but something about the room is distracting him. Something’s wrong.

No. Not wrong. Just… _off_.

He shifts on the bed and gets hit by a waft of musty smells from the covers. He stops, blinks down at them, then lifts his head and takes a subtle sniff.

That’s it. The _scent_. The room doesn’t smell like Stiles. Not… Not like it should.

Not like it used to.

Stiles’ usual scent, the refreshingly familiar cool springiness of it, is still there of course. But there’s nothing _refreshing_ about it now; it’s buried under layers and layers of suffocating terror, and guilt, and mourning and pain and piles upon piles of self-loathing.

It hits Derek like a metal pole through his chest (drawing on experience) the depressing, sickening _familiarity_ of this particular mix of scents. It was all he’d been capable of right after- after _the fire_ , for months and years. It’s wrong, so so wrong, because Stiles should never have to sit with all of _those_ emotions bubbling under his surface.

He exhales slowly, eyes locking onto the back of Stiles’ head as he opens his mouth to say something. Only, his thoughts aren’t manageable enough to form a proper sentence, so what he asks instead is, “How long’s it been since you slept?” because, above all that, the bed just feels horribly cold with misuse. He runs a hand absently on the covers beside him, a subconscious attempt to put some life back into them.

There’s a pause. Stiles’ heartbeat spikes minutely – barely noticeable considering how fast it’s been beating. “Depends on how you define sleeping,” he says. It’s a deflection, one he’s used before, and a weak one, at that. Derek frowns, mulls over how to raise the point of Stiles needing to at least try to take care of himself. Before he can do more than open his mouth, though, Stiles spins his chair around suddenly and pins him with a serious look. “I don’t need you to stay with me, Derek. You can go.”

There’s no mistake what he’s talking about. The pit in Derek’s stomach grows a little deeper when he thinks _cemetery_ and _funeral_ , not helped at all by the poorly-disguised building panic behind Stiles’ mask. His heart rate’s picking up some more. Derek stares at him in concern, starts saying, “Stiles,” only to cut off when the teen shakes his head quickly and leaps out of his chair to pace a little in front of him.

“I’m not, I _told_ you, I can’t go, I’m not- But you have to, you should, you should go now, it starts in a few minutes- just-“

“Stiles, you-“

“Just tell Scott, for me, okay- I can’t, I couldn’t yesterday, what the hell was I gonna say? ‘Sorry dude, I got the love of your life killed and I’m too much of a fucking coward to come’-“ His voice is cracking wildly and he shoves his hands into his hair, gritting his teeth as he clenches his fingers around the brunet strands and pulls just a bit, eyes screwing shut against a watery sheen.

Derek’s in front of him in an instant, hands going up automatically to grab Stiles’ wrists to loosen his grip. The shock of cold skin and _so much_ pain isn’t any less than it was yesterday but he doesn’t flinch away this time. Just grabs on and says firmly, “Stiles. Let go, c’mon.” Stiles’ fingers loosen and he lets Derek lower both their hands down until they’re in the space between their bodies. Derek instinctively pulls the pain away, staring hard at Stiles’ face when he tightens his jaw and drops his head, a couple of tears leaking out of clenched-shut eyes.

“Stiles,” Derek says quietly. “Stiles, look at me.”

He doesn’t expect him to listen but he does; Stiles sniffs and lifts his head to look at him with a shattered completely broken look in those dulled amber eyes. Derek’s gaze flits helplessly between them, searching for – what, he doesn’t really know, maybe a hint that Stiles isn’t as far out on the edge as he fears.

Whatever it is, he doesn’t find it.

His jaw clenches briefly. Stiles looks like anything Derek tells him will either rebound right off his flimsy brick wall or topple it over and bury him under. At this point, Derek has no idea which is worse.

“Listen to me: you _didn’t kill anyone_ , you weren’t the cause of any deaths or injuries or, fuck, emotional _trauma_ the nogitsune caused by _using_ your body.” Stiles inhales sharply through his nose, tenses noticeably, but doesn’t react otherwise to the words. Derek grits his teeth. “If I need to say it every day until you believe it, then I will. It wasn’t-“ But the words won’t move past a sudden lump in his throat. It wasn’t- _it wasn’t your fault_. A sudden jerk of Stiles’ arm makes Derek look down; he realizes his grip has gone too tight and he releases Stiles’ wrists hastily – he’s supposed to be _easing_ the pain, not adding to it. _It wasn’t your fault._ But the words still won’t come. He shoves them aside, instead, forces himself to look back at Stiles. “And don’t- you’re not a coward,” he manages.

This, at least, garners a reaction. Noted, it’s not a good one, but it’s something. Something ugly and horrible in the form of a twisted bark of laughter as Stiles’ expression tightens and he shakes his head. “Really? _Really_ , Derek?” He pulls back, waves a hand jerkily to gesture at himself. “You’re really going to stand there and tell me that- that I’m not weak? Scott’s my best friend, dude, he _needs me_ there, and all I can think is that if I was just stronger he _wouldn’t_ because _Allison wouldn’t be gone_.” An awful sob-laugh wrenches itself out of his mouth and he turns away with a curse, bringing a hand up to rub furiously at his face.

And Derek is _stunned_. He stands and stares helplessly, because _no_ , no, Stiles _isn’t_ weak. He’s easily the strongest human he knows; he’s stronger than most _werewolves_ he knows, too. But even the most strong-willed people have breaking points and Stiles seems to have reached his.

He has no words, though. They’ve never been his strong point, but even so, there’s no way he can convince Stiles otherwise, not today, definitely not right now. He doesn’t realize he’s reaching out to touch Stiles’ arm until the teen stumbles away a step, still not meeting his eyes.

“Go,” Stiles says hoarsely, eyes flitting up to Derek’s face before fixing on a point somewhere over his left shoulder. He clears his throat. “You should go. Scott, he’ll- you should…”

Derek looks at him intently. Considers telling him that he was never actually planning on going, but he doesn’t actually think that would go down well right now. He thinks about the bone-deep hurt of losing a pack member, of Scott, and what Stiles is asking him to do.

He makes up his mind, and nods. “Okay.”

Stiles’ eyes snap up to meet his. The relief is almost palpable. “Okay?”

“I’ll go. For Scott.” _For you_ , he doesn’t add. 

Derek doesn’t wait for Stiles to reply. He walks past him to the window, brushes a hand lightly across his shoulder on the way. Stiles doesn’t say anything or look back as he leaves; neither does he.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Don't forget to let us know what you thought. We thrive on comments. :)
> 
> (you can find me on tumblr [here](http://deathby-stiles.tumblr.com) and Remy's [here](http://improud-ofus.tumblr.com) yo :3)


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